


On Cravings and Interruptions

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [7]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Animal Attack, Food, Gen, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1637, Blois. A young one is the perfect way to enjoy a new perspective, and to test your own patience.<br/>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Cravings and Interruptions

_Boy, n.:  a noise with dirt on it.  
_  ~Not Your Average Dictionary.

The Count enjoyed the early morning warmth after breakfast. The late spring was beautiful in Blois and Athos found it was a small pleasure to sit in the new stone benches under the sycamore trees; and inhaling the perfume while the white petals, rocked by the gentle breeze, fell off over his head. It was a pleasure he did not like to enjoy too openly, because Grimaud’s smile would be big and would tell too much, among other things, that he actually loved the countryside, even though he protested otherwise.

And, despite how much he would like to stay there a while, it was time to start the day's work. He had to talk to a tenant who paid part of his rent making cheese for the castle; lately, he was not doing his part well and Charlot was too lenient with him. He was decided to end the matter before midday meal. The Count was up from the bench, removing his hat to shake the snow from the flowers, and a blast of warm, fragrant wind caressed his face.

Such a beautiful day...

At that time, he chose to walk, it was a half-hour stroll, it did not merit to saddle up the horse; moreover, he would have a better appetite at the return. Straightening his shoulders, he began his walk, taking one of the trails in the rear of the property, one of the Charlot followed every time he had to do his master’s errands.

Walking among the trees was another secret pleasure, especially after rain. He was very fond of damp, earthy aroma of the forest. That smell reminded him of his early childhood in La Fère and, in solitude, he could afford a smile at the memories. Even the chirping of birds and small animals spooked by his presence aroused a good feeling in him. The rustle of a shrub put him on guard, it passed through his mind the idea that it might be a young wild boar and he wondered if the pistol in his belt would be enough to bring down the beast. There was no need to worry.

“ _Pa!_ ” A child's voice proclaimed his pleasure at seeing him.

Athos reviewed the boy with a quick look. Not an hour had passed since he had woken up and Raoul was already covered with dust, his hair disheveled and his mouth filled with forest berry juice, although he had had a good breakfast at the table. At least he was wearing shoes and wasn’t barefoot, as he liked to go. The count was resigned; he could not expect less of that mischievous child. He took out his handkerchief and prepared himself to clean that dirty face.

“It seems that I do not put enough food on the table...” he called on Raoul while removing the stains. “What are you doing so far from the castle, Bragelonne?”

“I wanted berries,” replied the boy, trying to stand still, without a great success

“You had berries on the table,” he said, standing up and placing the handkerchief into his doublet.

“Pfff! Those were from last year and were mashed!”

“It was jam and I do not think Charlot's wife likes that you scorn her work.”

“They are better in the bush,” said the boy, who had just discovered he had an opinion for everything. “Where are you going, _pa_?”

“Where are we going, Raoul,” he corrected taking the hand of the little one. “You are to accompany me to the house of Firmin, since I do not want you to wander through the forest alone.”

Raoul smiled and tried to continue walking at his side, but the long strides of the count were too much for his short legs. Athos tried to be patient, now that the boy had transformed a short walk into an adventure in which, at each two steps, Raoul found a new object upon which ask to the Count about whether it was edible or if it was good for something. Five minutes later, Raoul stopped completely.

“I am tired...” the child pouted. “I want to go home.”

“We're almost there, Raoul.”

In reply, the boy raised his arms and opened and closed his fists in the ancient gesture that meant ‘Pick me up!’; with a grunt, Athos lifted the child and sat him on his shoulders hoping that this could speed up the pace; but, even from its raised position, Raoul found a way to divert the route.

“Oh, there are mushrooms!” he exclaimed, pointing to a path on the right. “Pa! I want mushrooms!”

“When we return,” Athos promised and wondered why he had not sent the boy home as soon as he found him wandering around.

“Fine,” and then he took off the Count’s hat and put it into his own head.

“Bragelonne!”

“But, the branches scratch...”

Huffing, Athos tried to hasten the step; Raoul crossed his arms and leaned against the head of his godfather, and muttered to himself commenting on everything he saw. That was almost blessed silence for the Count.

As soon as they heard the bleating of goats, Athos made the boy come down from his shoulders and tried to give the image of the landowner, but it was hard with messy hair and his dust-filled doublet, courtesy of Raoul’s shoes. The little rascal saw him with a smile on his face and the hat fallen over his brow, because it was too big for his head. The mixed feelings between the educations he had received and the comic effect of that image, made it difficult to be too harsh on this little dirty faced angel. Trying to put a severe countenance, the count extended his hand.

“Hand it over, Bragelonne.”

The boy handed his hat with both hands, and immediately after he tried to wander in the general direction of the goat pen. The count stopped him with a firm hand and knelt to look him in the eye. The boy looked at him with more curiosity than fear.

“Stay away from the pens, and behave yourself,” ordered the Count in a tone that left no doubt about the seriousness of his decree. “I will return soon.”

Raoul nodded and the adult stood up, putting the hat before entering the small house where Firmin produced cheeses from goat and cow milk. In the forest's edge, Raoul found some mushrooms, but were not as big as those seen from the shoulders of his godfather; that did not stop him to pick them up and placed in his shirttail.

Soon he got tired and sat down to play with mushrooms near the fence of the enclosure, Charlot had taught him where the mushrooms grew, but only had been cooked on your plate, with childish curiosity, examined each one of them. Raoul was distracted, so he was surprised by the bleating behind his head. A kid, escaped from the pen, looked curiously at the mushrooms the child manipulated. Without fear, for he was accustomed to dealing with horses, the Viscount reached out, presenting a small mushroom with an open hand. While he was feeding the kid, he smiled.

From the corner of his eye, Raoul noted that another goat had escaped from the pen, this one was different, and it has horns, was larger and seemed angry. The boy did not think, he only stood to his feet and ran to the little house, calling the count loudly. The mushrooms were scattered, while the boy fled, with all the speed of his legs, from the buck that was trying to give him a head butt.

Screaming desperate and without any help in sight, Raoul found refuge behind a barrel full of water that was near the door. The buck did not hit the barrel —Nature has no idiot goats― but threatened the barrel and the whimpering boy behind it with the forelegs

The noise they made brought out the Count and his tenant. The buck was preparing to attack the barrel again, but the count was faster, with a steady hand and an accurate eye, he took the forelegs with his left hand as he bent to take the hind legs with his right hand, the goat was thrown over the fence while filling the air with disconcerted bleats.

Athos smiled broadly, remembering the times when he used to throw quarrelsome drunkards through tavern windows. As the buck landed safely in the pen, he recalled that he did not throw goats just for the sheer fun of it, and turned his attention to the crying child who had been rescued by the peasant. Raoul was sitting on a barrel, mumbling something about some mushrooms.

“The boy is unhurt, _M. le comte_ ,” said the man, and a humorous smile appeared on his face tanned by the sun and the fire.

“Then, I guess it's time for us to return to the castle,” replied the count looking at the boy as if he were angry.

“I'll bring the cheese, _M. le comte_...”

As soon as the peasant disappeared, the Count chided the child: “Was the scare enough, you naughty boy?”

“The goat came to me; I did not seek it, _M. le comte_.”

Athos opened his mouth to continue the sermon, but the arrival of Firmin made him shut up. The peasant gave him a couple of bags in which one could guess the wheels of cheese.

“It will not happen again, _M. le comte_ ,” said the peasant while delivering the goods. “I already replaced the old pot. Thank you for understanding...”

“All is well, Firmin. I thank you for explaining the situation,” he replied, throwing the bags over his shoulder. “Come on, Raoul...”

Firmin helped the boy down the barrel and once he had done that, put a piece of cheese on the hand.

“To cure the fear, _M. le vicomte_ ,” he told the boy with a smile. “Caution: it is a very young cheese...”

Athos looked at Raoul who immediately understood the intent.

"Thank you, Firmin," Raoul said immediately and quickly followed the count.

Raoul walked along the count, watching the cheese whey is poured on his sleeve; this cheese was too different from the cheese that was served at the table of the castle, was softer and more humid... With reservations, Raoul took a bite and found it creamy but bland.

“This cheese is not very good,” said the boy, trying to find some flavor on the bite. “Why this cheese is not like the others, _pa_?”

“Because good things, Raoul, those that are really good are to be tested by fire, like bread and steel, or by time, like wine and cheese.”

“Ah...” he murmured, not knowing whether to eat it or leave it in the woods. Finally, he decided it would be rude not to finish it. “You are very strong, _pa_ , you throw the goat too far.”

“It's not about strength, Raoul, is a matter of skill,” Athos replied smiling, for a moment he had thirty years again. “Someday, I'll teach you to do so.”

“Really?” Raoul looked admiringly at his godfather. “And, where did you learn it?”

“During my service at sea, Raoul,” he explained to the boy, taking note to strip him that dirty shirt as soon as they got home. “If you throw someone overboard, that person will not fight you on deck; he will be too busy trying to swim...”

Raoul did not answer; he was too busy trying to finish that bland cheese. The sun beat down on them, its ardor was filtered through the young foliage of the forest; the breeze cooled them down, and the silence was beginning to return the count his love for the countryside when Raoul opened his mouth again.

“Are we going to pick up mushrooms, _pa_?” Raoul asked, wiping his hands on the chest of his shirt.

Athos sighed and recalled that children were of such good things in life that need time to mature.

 


End file.
